Triples
by cathrl
Summary: An evening at an ice gala doesn't go exactly - or even remotely - to plan. Written for the 2011 TIWF Ficswap.


This was written for the 2011 TIWF Ficswap Challenge. My assignment was:

"Write a "Thunderbirds" story in which figure skating is the major plot device. It must contain at least one canon series character, but that character does not have to be actually skating. It can be part of a rescue, it can be attending a skating event, it can be that an original character is a figure skater and figures prominently in the story, it can be anything at all you wish, but figure skating *must* be the focal point of the story somehow."

Many thanks to my husband for beta-reading, and to fate for giving me an assignment I actually know something about :)

_**Triples**_

**Three weeks earlier:**

**Jeff**

I must be getting soft in my old age. Or gullible. When Penny suggested I could support her favourite charity by coming to watch a sports event, I saw it being something a bit British. Soccer. Or that football game they play – rugby, I think it's called. Or maybe even cricket. I saw myself sitting in the sun drinking Pimms and killing a few hours while Penny explained rules I suspect she doesn't understand herself, and all for a good cause.

Then, after I'd agreed, she told me it was skating. Ice skating! That isn't even a sport. I'm not sure I can sit and keep a straight face while a few pretty-boys drip round the ice in figure-hugging Spandex and sequins.

But I promised Penny I'd go. And it is for charity. I'm not going alone, though. I need moral support for this.

**Gordon**

How did Father keep a straight face when he announced he was the guest of honour at a charity watersports event and did I want to come along? He failed to mention the water would be frozen.

But hey, it's for Penny, and the charity's to help disabled kids take part in sport as part of their rehab. That's a cause I can get behind. I'd never have walked again without swimming, that's for sure. If it's skating which gets someone back on their feet, I'm all for it.

**Amelia**

I can't believe it! I was this close to telling her to get lost. I mean, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward? Who has a name like that? I'm glad I didn't send her a snippy reply, though. She wants me to skate in a gala. A _huge_ gala. She said there will be celebrities there and everything. Watching me.

Nobody ever watches me. Mostly, they laugh. Look at the deaf girl who thinks she can skate. "Tell us about your music, Amelia. Do you like the tune? Sing along to it, why don't you?" I can't hear tunes. I can only hear rhythms. I can talk – just about. People who know me can understand me.

But skating music doesn't have to have a tune, not according to the rules, and this isn't even a competition, it's a gala. All I have to do is persuade my coach.

I'll show them.

**One day earlier:**

**Jeff**

Penny sure does have a nice home. I look at Creighton Manor and I wonder why I had the house on Tracy Island built so modern.

And then I think about just how silly a Georgian mansion would look perched on a cliff. What on earth would we do with fireplaces, in tropical sunshine? Who needs four-poster beds with curtains when it's so hot you want every breeze you can catch?

I like it here, though. Rolling green countryside. Acres of parkland dotted with fluffy white sheep. It's all so very English. Relaxed and laid-back and safe. I like being somewhere that nothing happens for once.

Skating gig's tomorrow. It's only an hour's drive away. Dinner here, pile into Penny's Rolls, and back in time for late night coffee.

**Gordon**

Penny had a quiet word with me this evening. Had I remembered ice rinks were cold? Well, yeah. I hadn't joined the dots, though. I don't do well with cold and damp and sitting still for hours. Most likely on hard plastic flip-down seats, too.

Not looking forward to this so much any more. Maybe I can get up and walk around between numbers. Maybe I can find some thermal longjohns tomorrow morning. And some heatpacks. And a cushion. And a few dozen blankets.

Why did I agree to come?

**Amelia**

Oh my god it's _tomorrow_!

What if I mess up? What if the music's too quiet and I can't feel the beat? What if I miss my salchow again? What if my skates come untied or my costume rips?

What if they laugh at me? All those faces feeling sorry for me and applauding because it's such a fabulous achievement that the little deaf girl can even stand up on skates?

I'd rather die.

I don't want to die. I want them to applaud because I'm _good_.

I can do this. I will do this.

**Gala day:**

**Jeff**

That was a truly great dinner. That cook of Penny's sure does a great pie, and I just love those good old-fashioned British meals. It's just as well I don't live here. I'd be needing a new wardrobe within weeks.

The rink's not as bad as I thought it would be. Padded seats, and the first item's a demonstration hockey match. Not my favourite sport, but one I understand and appreciate, at least. Next up's some local kid. Penny says she's one to watch. Then it's the interval. Hot coffee and polite conversation. Hopefully in that order.

**Gordon**

I always fancied trying hockey, but there weren't any rinks nearby when I was growing up. I've only skated once – a bunch of us went one weekend when we were in WASP basic training.

I definitely prefer my water liquid. I don't know how those guys stand up, much less chase the puck round the ice. They're not NHL standard, not by a long way, but they're having a great time, and there are little boys all round the rink staring and yelling and dreaming of being out there themselves. That's what it's about.

And then there's the girl down the other end. Fourteen or so, I'd guess, though it's hard to tell under the makeup. She's wearing rather less than the hockey players, dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. She looks terrified, and keeps glancing at the man next to her. Coach? Probably.

**Amelia**

I'm going to throw up. My legs are jelly. All these people! I wonder if they all came because they like ice hockey. Maybe they'll get up and leave when it's over. I'm the only figure skater before the interval, because afterwards they're going to turn the main lights out and just use coloured spots. I didn't think I could handle that. I need to be able to see my coach for visual cues because I can't hear the announcements. So I get the rubbish ice which the hockey players have cut up.

Coach said he has a surprise for me afterwards. Something nice. I hope so. I'm not sure I'll ever get to afterwards, though. I wonder what the biggest fool anyone's ever made of themselves on the ice is. At least there aren't any judges today.

But oh, I hope the crowd's quieter for me than they are now. I can't hear anything except random buzzing noise. I didn't think about this. If it isn't quiet, I won't be able to hear the beat. It'll be awful.

They'll announce it, right? That everyone needs to be quiet? The hockey players are leaving the ice now, and it's as noisy as ever.

Why didn't I take up chess?

**Jeff**

Figure skating next. Apparently the kid's deaf, so we all have to keep our enthusiasm in check so she can hear her music.

Funny choice of sport. You'd think she'd have chosen something where it doesn't matter whether you can hear. I hope the music isn't turned up too loud. I need to be able to make polite conversation after it. People give more money if they've talked to a celebrity, apparently. Doesn't seem right to me. Shouldn't they give more money if they've been entertained well, by people like that kid skating out onto the ice?

Well, she certainly looks the part. Lucy would have loved the dress. Gordon is either loving it or doing a very good impression. After the Moon, we were trained in how to how to deal with public appearances. After us, they started doing the training _before_ people went on high profile missions.

Similarly with Gordon. Top athletes get plenty of advice in dealing with the public. Gordon and Alan were both natural charisma on a plate from the moment they could talk, of course. Ironic that they were the two who had the training. Not that the other three are socially inept, but neither Scott nor John is a big fan of TV cameras, and Virgil's always let his music talk for him.

I don't think that kid's had much training. She looks scared half to death.

**Gordon**

The announcer holds his hands up for quiet, and he gets it, too. And the music starts. Music? Not exactly. It's all drumbeats, deep vibrations through the seats. I guess that's how she hears it.

She's still to start with, feeling the rhythm, getting the timing, and then she's away, smooth movements translating rapidly into high speed, backwards round the end of the rink, setting up to jump.

Hey, she's really quite good.

**Amelia**

It's not so bad. Actually, it's better than that. I think the seats must absorb some of the vibrations, or maybe the people. My music's much clearer than usual. I can feel every beat, without even trying.

Seven back crossovers round the end of the rink. Glide on a right back outside edge, getting my balance perfect. Gather myself, left heel to right instep. Step forward, right leg through, and leap up and forward. Arms in, ankles crossed, pull in to speed up the rotation. Two revolutions, pull out in the last half, and land on a perfect back right outside edge. Double axel, plus three for execution for sure if it was a competition.

Let's see the rest of them do that in the second half.

Next, double sal. I can do that in my sleep, after the axel. I'm flying. Two and a half minutes, and I want it to last forever.

The final element is my combination spin. Flying camel, sit, pancake, then pull up to layback with my free foot to my head. One of these days I'll turn it into a Beilmann. Everything's going so well I consider doing it now…but common sense takes over.

And then it's over, and I can see the crowd standing up, every face a smile, and I even imagine I can hear the applause.

**Jeff**

Not my thing, but she was darn good. Professional about it, too. Terror disappearing when you have to perform – that's common to the very best at so many things. Sports, and piloting, and the rescue business. Most people don't have it. I do, if I say so myself. All my sons do. Anyone who's ever made it to astronaut does. Anyone who's ever made it to Olympic champion.

I must remember to say to Penny that if that one ever needs a bit of discreet financial help, she should ask. I suspect that may be one of the reasons I was asked here. Penny knows I sponsor a fair few athletes, kids who wouldn't normally attract money. She also knows I have thousands of requests every month and most of them go in the trash.

Ah well. Interval time. I could murder a cup of coffee.

**Gordon**

Dad's going to talk to the corporate sponsors in the chrome and glass bar which takes up one entire end of the rink. I'm going to talk to the kid for local TV at ground level, just down below it. She's profoundly deaf, Penny says. Lip-reader. That shouldn't be too much of an issue. Divers are used to being lip-read. My signing's not too shaky either, though I suspect it would be rather a surprise to the world to discover Gordon Tracy fluent in it to the degree you'd expect of an International Rescue operative.

She's standing in a clear area just next to the gate onto the ice in just that little wisp of spandex and crystals. There are lights in her face, a cameraman and a sound guy setting up to use the icepad and the full banks of spectator seating as a background, with the table holding adverts for the sponsors just carefully in the corner of the shot, and she looks scared to death again. Since she's looking directly at me, I take the opportunity.

"Hi," I say, with my best supportive and reassuring smile. "I'm Gordon Tracy, and I don't bite."

"Hi," she manages, more or less clearly, though it's obvious she's deaf even from that one word. And she returns the smile.

**Amelia**

He's not as scary as I expected. He's not even as tall as I expected. I thought butterfly swimmers were all enormous. And he doesn't walk right. I know he had an awful accident and doesn't compete any more, so maybe that's why. I wonder if he misses it?

And then he glances around, concern all across his face. The TV people are doing the same – in fact everyone I can see is reacting. What's going on? What am I missing?

**Jeff**

What's that godawful noise? It sounds like the roof's coming in – oh crap –

**Gordon**

I've only heard that deep rumbling crash once before, and we very nearly lost Virgil that day. If he'd been thirty seconds faster stepping out of the Mole to go extract the trapped miners, he'd have been crushed for sure. None of the rest of them made it.

If I'm wrong, I'll apologise later. For now, I grab the girl and dive with her under the sponsors' table, blue velvet cloth and all. Please God it's more solid than a folding trestle. And it is. Good solid wood, cast iron supports. Lucky I didn't hit one on the way under, really.

The rumble intensifies, the floor shakes, something hits the top of the table with an almighty crash, and all the lights go out with a flash of sparks. And there's silence.

**Amelia**

I can't see anything. Nothing. It's pitch dark, and the floor's wet and cold, and my dress will be ruined! And what the hell did he do that for? An earthquake? Here? Surely not.

"Help!" I shout, though I suspect my diction is awful. Still, it's a sound. People will come running at that sort of sound. Except…there were people right there. The TV crew. What happened? What's happening?

**Jeff**

…not…good…

**Gordon**

The crashing's stopped, but I don't like the sound of the creaking and groaning. Something really big came down. Right above us, unless I miss my guess. That means roof panels, and insulation, and girders, and pipes, and everything else you have up there in an ice rink ceiling, all settling over us right now, supported by a table and the rink barrier itself.

Amelia yelled once, and now she's whimpering. Poor kid. Not exactly the way I normally introduce myself.

"It's okay," I say reassuringly, and then realise she probably doesn't even know I spoke, let alone what I said. I reach into my jacket pocket. I've always carried a mini flashlight on my keychain, ever since I had a keychain.

She flinches at the light, and then says something incomprehensible. This isn't the time to pretend ignorance. I'll make something up later if someone thinks to ask how I know sign language, and British sign language at that.

"Are you okay?" I sign.

She looks predictably shocked, but, to her credit, signs back, "Yes."

"Stay still. I'll come back."

I wriggle round and push the blue cloth up as best I can. It catches on things, but I manage to make a gap I can peer out through. No way out this side. It's a wall of timber and twisted metal and plastic sheeting, with the occasional bare electric wire just to make things even more fun. Just to my right, there's the remnants of a smashed light stand. I wonder if the TV crew got out.

**Amelia**

Gordon looks all round the edge of the table, underneath the tablecloth. He's very methodical, and he's grim-faced when he's finished. Then there's a moment of realisation, and he peels off his jacket and hands it to me.

"Stay warm," he signs.

I'm not going to argue – we're inches from the icepad, and it's freezing in here, probably literally. He's wearing a long sleeved shirt and it looks like he's wearing thermals under that. I'm wearing a single layer of sleeveless, backless mesh and Lycra. I wish I'd put my tracksuit back on now, but I wanted to show off my dress on TV.

My lovely dress, crumpled on the wet and dirt of the rink flooring. I could cry. Except that if I was crying it should be because the rink just collapsed on me and I'm trapped under a table.

I think I might be in shock.

**Jeff**

…

**Gordon**

While she's distracted, I prod my wrist communicator. Local transmission only. Ping Dad, just to let him know we're alive under here.

Nothing. No response at all. And, with a sinking feeling of horror, I reconstruct those last fractions of a second in my mind. The direction of the first noises and the loudest crashes. Which side the shaking seemed to come from. Dad was up in the bar, maybe ten feet further from the ice than we are and a floor above. He was even closer to the collapse than we were. And now he's not answering, even though all he'd have to do is tap the face of his communicator, discreet as you like. Which means that either his communicator, on his wrist, is damaged, or he's not hearing it. Neither is good.

**Amelia**

'Stay warm.' That was a joke. I'm so cold I can't imagine ever being warm again. How long are they going to take to get here? I'm not wearing a watch – of course not, who would skate a show routine in a watch? – so I have no idea what the time is.

Gordon keeps looking at his, but he doesn't say anything. I'm too cold to even try to talk – like he'd understand me asking what the time is anyway – and I don't want to unwrap my arms enough to sign.

Maybe he can hear people coming to get us out. But he'd say so…wouldn't he?

**Jeff**

…head…what…

**Gordon**

No response from Dad. No response from Penny. No sounds of rescue. And the air's a lot stuffier in here that it was ten minutes ago. We're buried deep and there's almost no airflow. That means we're using up the oxygen faster than it can get in here.

Time to call in the big guns. Let's just hope it's not _my_ wrist communicator which is malfunctioning.

I shift position slightly so the kid can't see my face and my wrist's closer to my mouth, and tap the button which broadcasts to any IR receiver within range.

"Anyone receiving me?"

"Gordon, tell me where you are," Alan's voice says, utterly calm.

"Under a table. What's going on?"

"You mean you don't know?"

"I don't have time for chit-chat, Alan. Our oxygen's running out and it's damn cold in here."

Brief pause. Then, "Ah. Scott and Virgil are on their way – Penny yelled as to how International Rescue was needed into a reporter's face. Local rescue teams are working their way in, but there's a fair few people missing. Where's that table of yours? And…'we'?"

"Me and the local skating star – they were just setting up to do the TV interview when the roof came down. We're right next to the barrier round the rink. Just below the bar. That's where Father was. Is he…?"

"No news on him yet. Gordon, I want you to eat your edible transmitter now and then stay warm and quiet."

"But Scott won't be –" I cut myself off. England's halfway round the planet from Tracy Island. By the time Scott gets here, I may be in no shape to eat anything.

I dig into the pocket of my jacket, and pull out the edible transmitter and a packet of what Penny calls 'jelly babies'. It's time to go into survival mode.

**Amelia**

Jelly babies? Sugar, I suppose. Better than nothing. I take one and start chewing. Gordon's eating one too. He tucks the paper bag back into the pocket of the jacket I'm wearing, and taps me on the hand. I nod. I'm watching.

His signing's very much better than I'd thought it was, but hardly fluent.

'Rescue's coming. Not yet. It's cold. Excuse me.' He smiles apologetically, and then puts an arm round me and pulls me close. Wow. Gordon Tracy giving me a cuddle. I'd have killed for this yesterday. I hope I'm here to kill for it tomorrow.

And then he turns the torch out, and the only sense I have left is the sensation of that strong arm round me. I can feel him breathing, and his heartbeat, and he may not be a competitive swimmer any more but oh boy has he got a set of muscles on him.

I don't want to die here. I want to see the look on everyone's faces when they discover exactly how I spent my evening.

Wikipedia didn't say if he has a girlfriend. I'm definitely available. Except for the whole being fourteen thing. That might be a problem.

I'm cold. Doesn't matter how much I try not to think about it. I'm really, really cold. So cold it's almost…warm.

**Jeff**

Oh, man. What hit me? Why can't I think straight?

**Gordon**

I hate waiting to be rescued. Always have done. At least this time the kid's calm. I've sat and waited with enough hysterical women, screaming kids, and blustering men to appreciate one who's doing what she's told without making a fuss.

This isn't good at all, though. I bring my left wrist back up to my mouth, and speak quietly. I know she can't hear me, but I'd rather she didn't know I was talking.

"Alan?"

"Right here."

"Oxygen level's dropping fast."

"Can you hear any sounds yet?"

"No." I've been straining my ears ever since I first spoke to Alan. Nothing. Maybe I'm not hearing so well because of the oxygen deprivation? But I know I'm fooling myself. It's silent in here. The rescuers aren't even close.

"Sit tight and save your air. They're coming."

He's surprisingly reassuring. I've always felt a bit sorry for the rescuees who had Alan on the other end of the line instead of John. I think I've been doing him down. Calm, professional…and right. I need to shut down as much as I can. Like the kid snuggled up against my right side. She's got the right idea. I shut my eyes and force my breathing to slow and shallow. Use as little oxygen as possible. Sleep would be best, but I can't see that happening.

**Amelia**

…

**Jeff**

There's a crash and a sound of rending metal, and it's light so suddenly that I can't see anything. I'm blinking and squinting desperately, and then there's a voice.

"Over here! Sir, sir, can you hear me?"

Nothing comes out the first time. I swallow and manage to croak "yes."

Feet in my line of vision, and then someone crouches down and shines a penlight directly in my eyes. Just as well Mother isn't here right now.

"That's okay, sir. Bit of a concussion, I reckon. Just checking you over now."

There are hands on my back and legs doing what I recognise as a quick test for damage. It doesn't hurt, which is either a very good sign or a very bad one.

"We're going to move you now, sir. Just relax."

These guys know what they're doing. I'm on a stretcher in no time, being carried away, and for the first time I see the extent of the destruction. The roof at this end of the rink is completely gone. They've pulled me out of a pile of unrecognisable junk – panels, beams, bricks, splinters of furniture, shards of glass.

And I remember. I was standing in the bar, next to the giant windows overlooking the ice, and down below me and off to the left, Gordon, waiting for the TV interview.

Unrecognisable piles of debris, with workers picking through the surface and clearing it by hand, piece by piece. That'll take forever.

"Where's my son?"

"Sir?"

"My son. Gordon. He was…down there." I wave a hand in what I hope is the right direction. "With the TV crew. Have you found him?"

"The TV crew?" The man at the foot of my stretcher frowns. "They're over there somewhere, filming."

I push on. "My son. Gordon _Tracy_. Olympic swimming champion. He was giving an interview when it happened."

"I haven't seen him," the stretcher-bearer says. "And I'd recognise him. They'll get him out, sir. They're digging as fast as they can."

"International Rescue insist there are people alive under there," the other stretcher-bearer says. "Crap knows how they'd know – last we heard, they were still twenty minutes out."

"How long…" I start to ask, but there's no need. I'd recognise the sound of those engines anywhere.

**Gordon**

…

**Amelia**

…

**Jeff**

I'm sitting in a hastily erected emergency shelter sipping something warm and brown and waiting for the doctor to check me over when Scott comes in, accompanied by two people towing Mobile Control.

"Put it just there," he says. "Thank you."

A brief glance around, our eyes meet, and he turns back to work. Does he know…?

"My son!" I croak pathetically. "He's still under there!"

"My colleagues are working to reach the trapped people," Scott says. "Don't worry, sir. Your son's going to be just fine. This equipment will help me pinpoint him exactly."

"And my daughter?" The woman opposite me sits forward. Her face is tear-stained, and she looks to be about forty. "My daughter was right under where the roof came in. With the TV crew. Only they got out and she didn't."

"Your daughter's the skater?" I ask. That would make sense. The older man who was in here with her a few minutes ago had 'Coach' on the back of his jacket, and left with a comment about having to check his other pupils were all accounted for.

"Yes…yes, but I need to know if she's okay!"

Scott's never stopped working, and now he glances back at me. "Thermal imaging shows us two people in a cavity under the debris. We'll have them out in no time." He focuses back on his console, and speaks again, this time talking to local rescuers and directing them to people who are, I think, trapped near where I was. They won't be buried as deep, of course. And there must have been a thousand people in the bleachers, maybe more. If the main part of the roof had come down too…

Even so, I've seen a couple of covered stretchers taken past the doorway while I've been sitting here. Not everyone got lucky today.

**Gordon**

There's a hissing sound and a warm breeze on my face. Warm? Where did warm come from? And it must be oxygen. I've done enough oxygen deprivation tests to know that there's no way I'd have woken up otherwise.

I force sticky eyes open. That's the business end of an IR oxygen pipe six inches from my face. I've never been so glad to see one.

I'm still too cold to shiver, but I gently pull the pipe and aim it towards Amelia.

"Gordon," says John's voice – there's a microphone and a speaker in these things, as well as a micro-camera, "how are you?"

"Okay," I say. We both know I'm not, not after – how long has it been? – at these temperatures. What he wants to know is if my brain's working. Yeah, it's working. I know I'm borderline hypothermic and I know it's still going to take a while to get us out.

"Hang in there. We're drilling in. Might get loud."

I can live with loud. And Amelia won't care.

**Amelia**

It's cold and wet and my neck's stiff and I'm leaning against…oh my GOD! My brain tells my body to sit up. My body refuses to do anything of the sort. It's light. And there's another man in here. He's young, fit and white-blond, in a blue uniform which I recognise from a thousand artist's representations on the TV news.

International Rescue? They called in International Rescue to get me out of here, and I'm wearing a filthy dress and a man's suit jacket which is ten sizes too big for me?

My life sucks.

"Can you move?" He's a darn good signer, and I'm glad not to have to try to lip-read in uneven torchlight.

I try again, and this time I manage to sit up a bit. I'm never going to complain again when Coach tells me to warm down properly.

He turns and shines the light at the end of the table, and now I can see that the cloth's gone and there's a tunnel through the debris. A neat perfect circle, sloping upwards. I wonder how they did that.

"Can you crawl through there?" he signs.

I must have looked sceptical, because he carries on. "There's help at the other end."

I nod. I can crawl.

"Take the jacket off. It might…" He obviously doesn't know how to sign "snag", but no matter. I understand what he means. I shrug out of it – oh wow, it's cold now I'm not wearing it – and hand it back to its owner.

"Thank you," I enunciate as clearly as I can.

Gordon nods and smiles, and helps me shift onto hands and knees and start to crawl towards the International Rescue man. Past him, and into the tunnel – it's coated in something, some sort of smooth plastic, or I'd be cutting my hands and knees to pieces. And now I can see the other end. Only a few metres long, and it's light up there, and there's another blue-uniformed man reaching in to help me out. He's gorgeous too – maybe it's a job requirement or something. Brown hair, brown eyes, and an encouraging smile. And there's an ambulance guy there too, with a warm blanket which is the best thing I've ever felt. I'm not going to die after all. _I'm not going to die_.

**Jeff**

Minor concussion, the doctor says. I'm not going to argue, though I thought being knocked cold automatically upgraded you a few levels. She's given me some headache medication which actually works and told me not to go to sleep for the next few hours. Maybe 'minor' is a polite fiction to keep her life simple, since I'm right where she can see me anyway and her triage nurse is making a point of asking if I still feel okay every five minutes. If she said it was a major concussion she'd have to try to send me to hospital. Doesn't take a genius to know I'd refuse.

The next stretcher which comes in has a girl on it, and the woman – her name is Karen, I've discovered while we've been sitting here drinking stewed tea and trying to pretend we don't want to run around screaming with frustration at how long everything's taking – is over there faster than I'd believed possible. "Amelia! Sweetheart, are you hurt?"

The kid sits up and signs at ninety miles an hour, grinning from ear to ear. She's not hurt. Cold and shocked, I suspect, but no, she's not hurt. She's even still wearing her skates. I guess taking them off wouldn't have served any purpose. She's carried over to the area they've been using for triage, though it's empty now – everyone's either gone to hospital or gone home. Everyone who lived.

So, if she's out, where's Gordon?

**Gordon**

John puts a hand in the pouch which contains his IR first aid kit and pulls out a syringe which definitely shouldn't be in there. "You need this?"

I just look at him. Ever since the hydrofoil accident, being cold's been bad news, being stationary for long period's been bad news, and both together hasn't been something I've dared try. If moving wasn't the problem in the first place, I'd hug him. My favourite personalised cocktail of fast-acting painkillers.

He's not the greatest first aider in the world – he simply hasn't had the practice the rest of us have – but I don't care. He gets the drug from the syringe into me, and three minutes later life's gone from 'there's no way in hell I can move at all' to 'okay, this is going to hurt a lot.'

I can handle 'hurt a lot.' I've had far too much practice at it. I shift my weight experimentally and I don't yell. Time to go.

The hole's not as big as it looked when Amelia crawled into it…or maybe she's just an average figure skater and about nine inches across maximum. Either way, I can see why John the track athlete came down through it and not Virgil the running back.

"You'll fit," says John. "Commando crawl…or do you want the shoulder harness? Virg can pull you out, no problem, but it might hurt more."

"I'll crawl." I grit my teeth and put my head into the hole before I can change my mind. Shoulders next. I don't think I'd have fit at all when I was swimming seriously. It's tight. Not quite cork-in-a-bottle tight, but tight enough that crawling normally was never going to work. It's a wriggle – shoulders, then waist, then hips, then feet.

Well, I was a butterfly swimmer, after all. It's not that unfamiliar a motion.

Virg is there to pull me out at the top, John follows under his own steam, and the two of them help me slowly to my feet. There's a stretcher waiting, but…hell no. Two shoulders will do just fine.

**Amelia**

The doctor doesn't sign and isn't used to being lipread. I'm too tired and cold to struggle. Mum can interpret for me for once.

They want me to spend the night in hospital, or what's left of the night. I just want to go home. Mum pulls her 'qualified nurse' card, and they finally agree, once they've grilled her for ten minutes on how you treat hypothermia and dehydration and what are the signs that I'm dying instead of recovering. That bit, of course, I understood perfectly. Great bedside manner. Not. I'm deaf, guys, not stupid.

**Jeff**

Finally Gordon comes in. He's pale as all hell and wincing with every step, John taking most of his weight on one side and Virgil on the other, but he's walking. I might have guessed.

"Okay, son?" I ask quietly.

"Okay. Is that coffee?"

"I think it's tea."

He drops into the chair next to me, takes the cup I push across to him in two shaky hands, and downs it in about a swallow and a half.

"This one's hot," warns Virgil, who's collected another one from Pamela, the lady who's been supplying drinks to rescuers and rescuees alike since I've been in here. She lives over the road. Came over with a couple of thermoses when she saw what was going on, sent her husband back for their camp kitchen when she realised the scale of what had happened. She runs the local Scout troop, apparently.

Gordon wraps his hands round it, and John rearranges the blanket round his shoulders. My guess is he's just warmed up enough to start shivering. He's going to feel lousy soon.

"Have you seen Penny?" I mutter to Virgil.

"Keeping the news crews happy. Twelve interviews at last count, Parker said."

"We're done," says Scott from Mobile Control. "We'll be packing our equipment up and clearing out."

"Thank you," says the doctor from the other end of the tent – she's been so busy I've never caught her first name. "Without you…"

Scott just nods and gets on with shutting down Mobile Control. Difficult conversation to have, that one. He probably has it every rescue.

By the time he's finished, the doctor's done with young Amelia, and Gordon's the only patient she has left.

"Don't worry," is his opening line. "I was crocked before today."

She raises her eyebrows, checks him out, and we proceed to have pretty much the exact same conversation she had with Amelia's mother. Gordon's not interested in going to hospital and being poked and prodded there, and I can't say I blame him. He doesn't react well to most drugs, not any more. If I was worried about him, I'd insist, but he knows his own body, better than most. If he says he just needs warmth and rest, he's right, even if he is moving like a geriatric with two broken legs.

She finally nods. "Call a doctor if you have any concerns. You're doing this against my advice but you're an adult – I can't stop you."

Gordon's face shows tired relief. I shake her hand and pour on the Jeff Tracy charm. Let her go home happy, at least. She's done a great job too. Sitting here's been a real eye-opener. I never gave much thought to the people who we hand the rescuees over to before, or to the facilities they have. Maybe we should add some extra equipment to Two. A big portable shelter or two, and a stove, and some decent coffee. After all, I don't plan to be rescued again, but you never know…

**Gordon**

No, Mrs Doctor Lady, I am not going to your hospital. Why not? Because I have no intention of explaining that the reason I'm refusing any painkillers is that one of the IR operatives already gave me a cocktail of morphine, codeine and a few other things which would be unethical if not illegal, except that he's my brother and he was carrying drugs prescribed legally to me. I could even produce the certificate to prove it if I had to. And if I wanted to announce to the world who IR's run by.

I didn't think of that one beforehand, and I suspect John didn't either. Not that I had much choice.

The deep note outside can't be anything except Penny's Rolls, and a few seconds after it stops Parker sticks his head round the corner of the tent door. "Will you be needing h'any h'assistance?"

I've long since gotten over being embarrassed in front of Parker. "Please."

He and Dad aren't quite as slick as John and Virgil, but we make it out of the tent and to FAB One. Penny's in the back, leaving me the heated seat in the front alongside Parker. He's turned it on in advance and everything. Heaven.

I'm not exactly warm by the time we get back to Penny's, in fact I'm shivering worse than I have been at any point since I started getting cold, but I know this is a good sign. Core temperature's going back up. I'll be shivery as hell for days, though.

The lights are on at Penny's, and as we pull up, Scott and Virgil come down the steps to meet us.

"What are you doing here?" I ask stupidly.

Scott's expression is a strange mixture of embarrassed and proud. "Remember how we figured One's exhaust manifolds wouldn't hold out if I tried to maintain top speed for more than two hours? Turns out we were right."

"We didn't have a choice," said Virgil. "Standard flight profile, you wouldn't have arrived yet." He glances at Jeff. "Oxygen concentration in their refuge was just over ten percent when we got the tube in there."

I shiver even more than I am from the cold. Even I can do that math. Twenty percent's normal. Eight percent's fatal.

But…if One shouldn't even be here yet?

"So how did you and John get here?"

"Not one of my all time favourite experiences." Virgil offers me a hand to get out of the car and I accept it gratefully. "Three of us in One, plus the emergency tunnelling equipment. It was cosy. Fortunately there was a TV crew right there when the roof came down and they just kept filming, so we could see what was going to be required."

"Exhaust manifolds?" says Jeff.

"Fried," says Scott. "Brains will have to bring replacements over. I nursed One this far – she's in the barn we've used before – but she's in no state to fly home at any speed."

"You did the right thing," Jeff says, and Scott nods. I don't think he was ever in any doubt about that. He just dislikes damaging a plane, especially One.

We're moving up the stairs to the main door, and John holds it wide open as I limp inside. I'm managing with only one shoulder to lean on this time. I'm improving. Even more so when I see the blazing fire, and feel the warmth emanating from the doorway of Penny's sitting room.

Ice rinks. Brrr. I definitely prefer my water liquid.

**Amelia**

We're half way home in the car, and I'm in tears. It should have been such a wonderful evening. I skated so well! And now nobody will remember it.

I look down at a dress which is a tangle of shreds, stained with black from the rink flooring which never comes out of anything no matter how you clean it, and suddenly I'm crying so hard I can't even see it.

Never mind my dress. I don't even have a rink to skate at any more.

**Three days later:**

**Jeff**

Not often I enjoy dealing with sponsorships and donations, but this time it's personal. I sign off on the last few with a smile on my face. Pamela's Scout troop will get that new building they need so desperately. The sports rehab charity…well, they probably thought their fundraising was in tatters. Two of their biggest donors died, after all, and one was badly hurt. I can't bring those men back, but maybe the third might even end up benefiting from the charity he supported. At the very least I can make sure they can keep their programs running until they can start fundraising again.

**Gordon**

I woke up this morning and I wasn't cold. Finally. I knew it would happen eventually. It's not like I haven't been hypothermic before – I was a WASP rescue diver, for goodness sake – but that bone-deep cold just gets into you and it feels like it will never go away. I can go back in the water now. I've missed it.

Scott's home too, at a more sensible speed. He threw everything One had getting to us in time, and still only just made it. We were so very close to running out of oxygen. If Amelia had panicked, if she'd done anything except keep quiet and still…

That's one brave, determined, talented little kid. I'll be watching out for her in the future.

**Amelia**

There's a letter in the post for me, franked in New York. I open it, and read it…and read it again…

Mum touches me on the arm. "What's wrong?" she signs.

I hand over the letter, and watch her face change too. Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. It's from Tracy Industries, offering me a place on their 'talented athletes' program. Pick a rink, pick a coach, they'll find a way to make it work, and they hope to see me competing internationally in a couple of years.

Not because I'm deaf. Not because they're sorry for me. But because I'm _good_.

I'll make them proud.


End file.
